


Primal Urges

by DepartedNullification



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Cutting, Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Harm, Some of it is glorifying the tags above, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:55:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25873981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DepartedNullification/pseuds/DepartedNullification
Summary: Julie feels alive with Frank.The feeling was less than mutual.
Kudos: 4





	Primal Urges

**Author's Note:**

> Super short but it still took forever. There is a single line of dialogue rip.
> 
> Warning: While some of the following isn't too graphic, if you are sensitive to any of the tags, please reconsider whether or not to read this fic.

Frank Morrison goes through a simple routine every evening. While normal teenagers often crave for simple pleasures of the flesh, Frank hungered for something **more.**

To begin, he rummages through his bedsheets in search of his small switchblade. It was nothing fancy, just enough to get the job done.

Then he pushes the sleeves of his hooded leather jacket up past his forearms. The entirety of both arms were marred with pastel pink lines that added color to Frank’s pale skin, and by extension, added color to Frank’s existence. The thick marks and nicks are a perfect imitation of the conflict residing in Frank's mind. There are few things he enjoys more than adding to his vast collection of blemishes. Nothing excites Frank more than the sensation of blade piercing through layers of flesh to extract the sweet red nectar inside.

The sharp edge of the blade is put into position against Frank’s narrow wrist. Pressure is applied as the blade swipes inwards, parting the skin and making a rather wide exit for blood to expel. The pretty crimson that starts to bead up as a result is a sight for sore eyes.

His deluxe box of exactly two hundred band-aids ran out weeks ago. Nowadays he lets the warm bodily fluid sluggishly ooze from his wrist to the underside of his arm. He feels tranquil while combing through the trail with the sharp edge of his switchblade. The blood decorates the blade with a beautiful red stain. The edge of the blade rests against the wound for a second too long. A tiny voice in the back of his head is telling him to **finish the job.** Instead of using his trusty pocket knife to demolish his veins, he sets the sharp object on his bedside table with some reluctance. _Not yet,_ he tells himself, _but soon._

The teenager presses his fingertips against the self-inflicted injury and observes as sticky globs of blood cling to his fingers as he pulls them away. The stinging sensation was never enough to soothe the numbing pain in the boy’s chest.

Before he has a chance to tidy up, a muffled guitar rift bleats to life from inside his jacket. Frank fishes his phone out from his jacket’s breast pocket with bloodied hands. Julie calls him the same time every night to check in with him.

Sometimes Frank Morrison worries her intentionally, because it feels good to hear the concern and fear in her voice. He knows exactly what to say to push her buttons and make her tick. Tonight will be no different from the rest.

Frank Morrison picks up the call and presses the phone against his ear.

“I want to fucking die.”


End file.
